


not behind mountains, but right behind our shoulders

by redredrobin



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, POV Second Person, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 08:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18427163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredrobin/pseuds/redredrobin
Summary: You have left men in ditches.You leave him in the alley. You already carry his heart with you.





	not behind mountains, but right behind our shoulders

You find him dumped in an alley. He's already cold when you check his pulse on his wrist and his neck. Your shoes are sticky with his blood, and a moment later, so are your trousers. The angle of his body is eerie, as if he has been brought here and laid to sleep. And you kneel as if you are coming to bed, ready to curl beside him.

His father’s watch is still ticking. You divest him of it and snap it in your own wrist, listening to it in the darkness.

(You reflect: you belonged to him the moment you returned it. He belonged to you the moment he told you it was his father’s. His act of rebellion. It was the first thing that entered your vault, the first of many things about Illya you kept safe.)

You close his eyes. In a fit of hopeless sentimentality, you kiss his forehead and his cold mouth. 

You have left men in ditches. You reach for Illya’s hand, twining your fingers together, almost wishing that death would mean you could not pull free. 

You leave him in the alley. You already carry his heart with you.

* * *

Gaby finds you a week later lying on the floor of a lavish room, surrounded by empty bottles of vodka. It's the first time you feel a hangover this bad: you must have drunk half the cabinet. She's frowning.

“I have an idea,” you tell her, cheerily.

“Your ideas are terrible,” she snaps. 

You raise your glass to her and swirl what little liquid is left in it. Her eyes follow it as though hypnotized, but you know the look she has, the almost explosive fury. She wants to grab that glass and throw its contents on your face. 

You don’t blame her. You wouldn’t stop her, either.

You drink down the rest of the glass, abruptly. It might be vodka, but you’re not about to waste good alcohol. You draw a breath, and you see the storm about to break on her face. She is waiting for you to say something, anything, she wants you to make it as mind numbing as possible. Then, she can cut you down.

“Marry me.”

She opens her mouth in an _o_ of surprise, inhaling. She blinks. "What?"

“Marry me,” you say. She didn’t miss the first time you said it, but now you stand, and sway, like a drunken man about to fall. There is no one there to catch you. You have tried to balance upright and found it degrading in its difficulty. Through alcohol-fuelled rambling you do not remember (a first), you outline it for her. You gesture, as though you are on a drive with her at the wheel, as though you are already holding the ring. 

She glares a hole through you.

“Gabriella,” you say, and your voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. You have never begged in your life.

(You asked Illya for everything that you shared. He gave you more than you ever could have imagined, but you were always a taker.)

She knows how much tenderness you have for her. She used to share that with someone. You aren't sure if you can call it love. You did love a mother once, and that's what you have always used as a benchmark. But you know that Illya and Gaby are necessary to you, they are precious, and they are yours. Your freedom was necessary, and when it was wrenched from you, you survived. But you do not know what happens now. Gaby is the only one left in the world for you.

You know she’s going to say yes before she does. You’re the only one left in the world for her too.

* * *

You murmur his name in your sleep. Gaby likes to cradle your head and whisper in your ear. You speak to each other in Russian, and you call him all the sweet names he used to say to you when you remember him. 

Your body introduces you to a new pain. Grief swells in your body like the tidal wave you always compared Illya to, and you think this is how he must have felt, when he was angry, so much of it boiling and aching, pooling in your chest. You yearn to fit yourself against him constantly. 

You do not like it, but he is entitled to hold you even in death.

* * *

You find them. It was inevitable. In this world you've chosen to walk through, the circles are small. Enemies are hardly surprising. You used to prefer solo work until two exceptional people opened your eyes to partnership. But when you are most honest with yourself - which is always, you have never seen profit in delusion - you prefer when things are simple, like the War was simple. 

You have never made threats, seeing them as absurd plays by small men. No, you made guarantees, and carried them out. Vengeance is a waste of your time.

But you look down the sniper scope to the man who ripped away half of you, and you name this emotion anger, because you cannot name it as grief. 

(Your grief is kneeling in the alley. Your grief is your arms around Gaby in the dark, your wedding rings leaving grooves in your skin where they make contact. Your grief is every part of you that expects Illya to be there, and having to undo the habit every time you find one. They reset daily. And you need to adapt, but they will not let you. They escape from where you try to contain them. They strain against the door you wish to close. He would want you to remember, but he would be hurt, if he saw how you had changed.)

You name this grief, in your newfound clarity. You look at this man, and you know that your mercy is a quick death. 

But you owe him a debt. 

In this world, debts are paid. 

A bullet for a bullet. A life for a life. 

And yet - you are still a taker. It is risky, and it will not leave you unscathed, but you have done impossible things before. You remember your first mission with Illya, you recall the man who assured you that you would die there. He didn't have time to show you the finer points of the journey, but you have faith in your imagination. You will grasp every inch of your pain, and you will visit it upon him a thousandfold. 

You have been walking as though you will fall, since that night in the alley. You know that you must do this.

You cannot bring men despair, nor can you teach them fear. But your hands knew all of Illya’s scars, and you will use them to show his killer the meaning of destruction. 

( _Pliers_. How primitive.)

* * *

You copy his mannerisms once, for a mission, because you excel at adaptation. It is only later you realise fully who you're imitating. 

You have prided yourself on rarely feeling disgusted with what the work demands of you. 

You do it once, again, in front of a mirror. The sixth glass of wine in your hand, your shirt crumpled in a way you never would have allowed, before, and you say, _you're such a cowboy_.

Illya is your first and only ghost. You hold on to him like you wear his watch, think of his voice, remember the taste of his mouth that day in the alley. Your fingers curl, remembering his grip. You close your eyes.

He haunts you.

You let him. He is the only one.


End file.
